A/N: Wrote this using Write or Die. While I actually came out with something, I can't say that it was the most inspired something ever. But it's cute, so I'm posting it. Happy holidays, kids.

Without Snow

There is no snow in New York City, but Neal Caffrey still feels the cold, bitter and biting his bones. Today is a holiday, a day off. Peter is across the bridge. June is at home, but a different kind, the kind that doesn't involve structural beams and protective roofs, but people, related by blood or experience or that staggering enigma the world calls love.

Love. Neal thought he felt it once a long time ago and then there was a plane, big and close to rolling down the runway but it never made it. There was the sound like a million lions roaring in pain followed by a violent wave of heat and then where was love, but gone?

Neal doesn't know what love is anymore. Just that it turned his heart into a never-ending hammer, thumping thumping thumping, and his hands into thieves. He knows that when love went away his hands weren't as adept as they used to be, they shook, but Neal's smile was still as big and bright as the sun because that's what he made of it. He knows that love left him cold and empty inside, and he wanted death in his hands for the first time ever - never before had he wanted his finger on the trigger, or the steady, chilled weight of a gun in his palm. He knows that love wasn't worth its weight in salt, or in word. But, anyway.

What is Christmas without snow.

The sun is shining and he can see his breath, can hear the frosty crunch of grass beneath the feet of the park's homeless. They have nowhere. He was one of them once.

He stops for a moment and considers taking off his hat and his tie and his suit. Nothing left but a crazy loon in his underwear, no cover in the daylight except the shadows of the sparse city trees. This is what Neal could be, would be, if he wasn't Neal, if his heart wasn't a natural-born hammer, and his hands weren't natural-born thieves. If he weren't Neal, he wouldn't have an anklet, heavy, but lacking in its familiar itch because Peter promised that this one was better than the last one, that it wasn't as awful or as excruciating, but just as safe.

It's a leash, and Peter's a net. The anklet keeps him tethered, Peter catches him when the tether breaks either in function or in theory.

But the old ways are still bright and alive inside of him, cushy and wonderful, filled with the heavenly down of mischief and intrigue. He's going to cross the bridge in a few moments, he's going to go to Peter, and he's going to steal some wallets along the way, throw them down on the Burkes' kitchen table and say, "Alleged wallet thievery. I don't know why they're on my person, but you should look into it, Peter. See who's setting me up. I don't think we have to worry, though. Just some everyday tomfoolery in the city. I have a lot of enemies, you know. No, no, sit down. Enjoy your meal. I'll call the owners and let them know that their belongings and identities are safe. Is that wine, by chance? Why thank you, Elizabeth..." And so on.

He would look earnest and Peter would know and there would be anger. Peter would go red and El would roll her eyes, put a hand on Neal's arm and try to diffuse the situation. She would call them boys, even though it was Neal who was the infantile one who needed the attention and they would all know it and even Neal can admit this to himself now as he walks by several easy targets and keeps his thieving appendages to himself. Nobody needs to be mad on Christmas Eve, not even Peter. Peter deserves calm and peace and a night with his wife and why is Neal crossing the bridge again?

Satchmo needs a walk, he decides, putting one foot in front of the other, never stopping, because Neal has a heart like a hammer and feet like wheels encompassed in Italian leather. Satchmo needs to go outside, on the sidewalk. With Neal. His collar jingling with tags, his tongue lolling with happy. And Peter can be with El. And Neal can be with...Satchmo.

Yes, yes this is the plan, and it's a good one. No alleged wallet thievery. Neal is company for their furry child, he is a dog sitter and a friend, obedient and helpful and full of good will and Christmas cheer, he will bring smiles to their faces and joy to their hearts because he is Neal Caffrey, the kid with two blue eyes and one white smile bright enough to light up their tree.

"I'm here," he says under his breath, and he's on their porch, shuffling from foot to foot, looking and feeling less comfortable than he would ever allow anyone to ever see. I'm here, he thinks. To walk Satchmo and light up their tree.

There are no wallets in his pockets. Peter won't heat from throat to forehead yelling at him, pointing at him with a finger that would rather be doing things of the romantic nature with his wife rather than the semi-parental nature with Neal. Peter can still have a merry Christmas and a happy New Year because Neal hasn't chosen to be a little shit. Not yet. Neal has been good. No coal in that stocking he doesn't have.

"Neal?"

Neal yips. Legitimately yips like a frightened little puppy and whirls around to face Peter and El and Satchmo. They're all bundled up and glowing from the cold, Satchmo wagging his tail, his tags jingling ever so slightly with the movement.

"Are you okay?" Elizabeth asks, and she peers at him with blue eyes ripe with scrutiny "You must be freezing."

Peter looks like he wants to ask him what he's doing there, but instead says, "C'mon," and trots up the porch steps with Elizabeth and Satchmo at his heels, places a cold hand on Neal's left shoulder blade that feels warm. "Let's go inside." And he opens the door and pushes Neal inside of it.

"I came to walk Satchmo," Neal explains lamely.

"Well that was nice of you," Elizabeth says brightly, as Peter pushes him down onto the couch. "Wasn't that nice of him, hon?"

Peter takes a moment to respond. He's too busy putting his cold warm hand all over Neal's face and the back of his neck. "Hmm? Oh, yeah. Very magnanimous, buddy. Is there something I should know? You on your best behavior for a reason?"

Neal shakes his head. His teeth are chattering. They've been chattering for a while. He wonders for how long and why didn't he notice before? "I just thought it would be...helpful."

"Well, it was," Elizabeth says encouragingly.

"But you already did it," Neal points out, and even to his own ears he sounds like a dull-witted grade schooler.

"It's the thought that counts," she replies, sounding a bit defensive, as if his discounting of his alleged good will were somehow an assault to her very person. She strokes his hair back from his face. "Peter and I are going to get you some coffee. Stay here and no peeking."

"'Kay," Neal says agreeably, the warmth of the house and the hands seeping into the very core of him, triggering something sleepy and peaceful and oddly wonderful. He promises, "I won't."

He won't, but it isn't until they've been gone for nearly two minutes that it even occurs to him. "Peeking?" he breathes in wonder, and glances around. At the tree and the presents underneath it. At the fireplace and the stockings. Four of them, names falling down the length of the fabric: Elizabeth, Peter, Satchmo, and at the very end...Neal.

What is Christmas without snow?

It's fine, is what it is. And he wonders if love can possibly be like a tracking anklet, neither as awful or as excruciating the second time around. And maybe even safe.